


A Change of Heart

by vanillascribble



Category: GOT7, JJ Project
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Feels, Heart Transplant, M/M, Past 2jae
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2020-06-23 21:10:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19709521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillascribble/pseuds/vanillascribble
Summary: The day Youngjae died, Jaebum loses his heart while Jinyoung finds himself a new one. Can broken hearts find their way back home?





	1. And I Left My Heart Behind

Jinyoung x Jaebum / Angst / Chaptered AU

**-Prologue-**

**_And I Left My Heart Behind_ **

“Youngjae, wake up!”

  
_…_

  
“Are you alright?”

  
_Wh—_

  
“I’m kinda stuck—hold on!”

  
_What..what happened?_

Rustling of clothes. More profanities escaping from Jaebum’s lips. This time, he sounded more hurried than angry.

  
“Fuck! Let loose!”

  
 _Why’d you cursed so much?_ Youngjae thought. Something zipped by, like a seatbelt being unbuckled. More rustling. Like an angry beast trying to escape its cage.

  
He struggled to open his eyes, to focus. All he saw in the semi-darkness were shapes and shadows, indiscernible. He was able to make out the cabin of a car. Or it looked like one—he couldn’t tell for sure. Somewhere in his head, someone was screaming. Funny, the voice sounded very much like his own and yet not like his at the same time. Sirens blaring. _A fire truck? An ambulance?_ The rain, falling hard and heavy. Staccato beats on metal. Unforgiving. Something warm spilling from the crown of his head, sticky liquid coating his eyelashes, his eyelids heavy. He coughed, and something heavy dripped from his mouth, like lead, like the time when he had too much to drink. He wiped the moisture away. Sticky too. _Everything is sticky and mucky and…sleepy, why am I so sleepy?_ A hand reached towards him, Jaebum’s probably—judging from the viselike grip. How typical of Jaebum, Youngjae thought. To hold tight even… _even now._

“Work with me, Youngjae!”

  
_Ho…how?_

“I’m pulling you out—it’s gonna hurt,okay?”

  
_Don’t…don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me._

  
“On one, two, three!”

* * *

**\- Choi Youngjae-**

“Youngjae-ah…”

  
_Ye—yes?_

  
“Youngjae. Over here, child.”

It hurt so much to twist my head. Every movement seemed to hurt. But I turned as best as I could. Jaebum was screaming something… _something._ I couldn’t hear him at all, couldn’t make out what it was that he was mumbling and rambling and… _god, I wish I could sleep forever, you know?_ But he was screaming his head off, he looked scared, even. And Im Jaebum doesn’t get scared easily.

  
_Why? Why look at me like that?_

“Youngjae..”

  
From the corner of my eyes, I noticed her then, the figure standing in the rain across the street, beneath the streetlamp. She was holding a yellow umbrella. Like the one I used to bring to school when I was younger. She was dressed in a white hanbok that reminded me of fresh tteok.

_Tteok…have I told you how much I love tteok? Especially with mung bean and honey in them. I would gobble them up like my life mattered on them. Those tteok can be expensive, so Jaebum learned how to make them on his own, from Youtube probably. His tteok weren’t as pretty looking as the ones sold in one of those upscale dessert stores in Sinsa-dong, but I would finish them up within seconds—because Jaebum made them._

Anyway, this tteok-like lady—her figure casted no shadow beneath the streetlight.

_Hey tteok-lady, who…who are you?_

  
She raised the umbrella, and I caught a glimpse of her face. A face I knew so well. A face I dreamed of sometimes. A face I thought I would never see again. Not in this lifetime, at least.

_Hal..Halmeoni?_

  
“Wuri Gam..it’s been so long, isn’t it?” She smiled at me. The same familiar, comforting smile.

No one else but my grandmother called me ‘Gam’, the Korean word for persimmons. Because persimmon is the Buddhist symbol of transformation, she said.

  
“Before the fruit is ripe, it is green and very bitter. But as it ripens, the persimmon changes its colour to a vibrant orange and is very sweet when ripe.”

  
“But what does it have to do with me, Halmoeni?”

  
“Because you bring a smile to my face when you were born, child. And to everyone around you.”

_Halmoeni...why—why are you here?_

  
“I’m here to take you home.”

  
_Ho—home?_

  
“Yes. Our home.”

  
_We’re going to Jeonju? But no one lives there anymore, Halmoeni. Father sold the ancestral home when his business collapsed._

  
“No, not to Jeonju, my dear.”

  
_Oh? Where are we going then?_

  
“Somewhere not so far. And not so near.”

  
_Where?_

  
“Tsk tsk. Always a child full of questions, aren’t you, wuri Gam? Come, take my hand now.”

  
_Halmoeni, you’re so warm.._

  
“Am I? I hope so, child. I hope so.”

  
_It hurts, Halmoeni._

  
“I know, child. I know. Sssshhh, close your eyes now. When you wake up, it won’t hurt anymore.”

  
_Promise?_

  
“Promise.”

My grandmother was right. She was always right. With a touch of her finger, all my pain disappeared. Like how she would pour homemade herbal ointment on my various cuts and bruises when I was a kid growing up in the countryside, she poured all her warmth into me until I hurt no more.

“Now, whatever you do, don’t look back. You hear, child?”

  
“Uh-huh.”

I was a naughty child. Of course my grandmother would beg to differ, her being my grandmother and me her eldest grandson. One time she warned me not to climb the persimmon tree in our front yard, to wait until she come back from the meeting at the village hall and she would ask Uncle Kim who lived in the house with the blue roof down the road from ours to come and help pick the fruit. But did I listen to her? _No way._

  
I waited until she rounded the corner of our street and then I climbed the forbidden tree, imagining those ripe persimmons exploding in my mouth. I aimed for the sunshine the shape of an adult’s fist hanging from the lower branch. I was so determined to obtain the fruit, I didn’t hear the branch cracking beneath my weight.

  
My grandmother found me sniffling and unable to move when she reached home an hour later. I broke a leg while trying to break my fall. She didn’t say anything on our way to the hospital in town, but her fingers clutched at mine, her knuckles growing so white, I could almost see her bones pushing up against the skin.

  
There was not much you can do being nine years old and cooped indoors the rest of the summer. I was restless. I had too much energy and I was beginning to annoy my grandmother with all my endless questions. She probably had enough of me rambling my mouth off. One day, she brought out a gayageum. She dusted it off, ran her fingers over the strings so lovingly. I imagined it must be her prized possession. She tweaked the strings and the most melodious sound emerged from the zither-like instrument. Since then, I fell in love with music. Though I played the cello, I loved all sorts of strings instruments.

  
So before I followed my grandmother that night, I turned around and saw the carnage I left behind. Glass shards were scattered on the road, glinting like broken diamonds on midnight asphalt. The car was upside down, like a turtle sleeping on its back. Long, angry skid marks coloured the scene, like band aid stamped carelessly on someone’s injuries. I took the whole scene in and it took me a while before the truth dawned on me. Then I soaked it up, like the rain soaking my skin. Like the rain pelting down on Jaebum’s quivering shoulders as he tried to shield me from it.

“Hurry now, child. We have a long way ahead.”

  
“…”

  
“But Jaebum…he..”

  
“..Child..”

  
“Can’t I at least say goodbye?”

  
“We have to go now.”

  
“Just one moment, Halmeoni…”

  
“…”

  
“Please?”

  
“..There is nothing else you can do here, child.”

  
“But I have to—”

  
“You always have to be so stubborn, don’t you?”

There was no way I could have known whether Jaebum heard me. Whether he felt me, trying to console him. Trying to tell him what happened that night was not his fault. Because I know him so well, like how I know the entire chords to Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee, enough to play the composition on my cello with closed eyes, without referring to the notes. Because I played it so many times. Perhaps I knew him too well.

But my grandmother was right. There was nothing else for me to do that night. I realised I couldn’t stay there either, no matter how bad I wanted to.

I walked away then, leaving him sobbing by the roadside as if his own life has ended. The last thing I saw before I ran after my grandmother that night was Jaebum cradling my broken body into his lap and I continue to break and break and break. Until I couldn’t break no more.

  
So I walked on, leaving a piece of my heart behind. It never belonged to me anyway. My heart was his to keep.

_Who—whoever you are…take care of him, will you?_

**Promise**

I promise you,  
when it rains,  
I will go.  
I will go  
where you can’t follow.

Don’t look for me in the rain.  
Promise me,  
When the rain stops falling,  
you’ll smile up at the sun again.  
Promise me.

© Vanillascribble (July 2019)


	2. Of Broken Bodies and Broken Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of an accident that took Youngjae away from Jaebum.

**Of Broken Bodies and Broken Souls**

_"Ash on an old man's sleeve_   
_Is all the ash the burnt roses leave._   
_Dust in the air suspended_   
_Marks the place where a story ended."_

-Lines of poetry from **_Little Gidding_** , (Four Quartets published in September 1942) by T.S. Elliot (1888-1965)-

**\- Seoul National University Hospital, one rainy night-**

She has seen her fair share of broken bodies.

  
Working the night shift at the Emergency Room of Seoul National University Hospital for the past twelve years has brought her heartache along with some respite when her patients were discharged in a better condition than they were brought in.

  
From her experience, rainy nights like this always bring more than the advisable share of heartache to the men and women working in the ER. Outside, the ambulance sounds very much like a wailing child; a newborn baby thrusted into the lights and in people’s eyes. It stops in front of the ER and she snaps her gloves on. _No doubt tonight is going to be a very, very long night._

  
She rushes to the approaching gurney, raising her voice a notch and fighting to be heard over the din of people groaning in pain. The ambulance that delivers the young man is still parked at the entryway, its emerald green lights swerving from the entryway, casting an eerie green glow over the whitewashed walls of the tired ER.

  
“Hey, Jung. Been busy tonight, huh? And what do we have here?”

  
“21-year-old male. Car accident. Overturned trailer. Went right into it. Head trauma.”

  
“Vitals?”

  
“Very weak, doc. Appears comatose since 15 minutes ago.”

  
A common person might pass the young man and not know just how badly he is injured, for he looks like he was sleeping peacefully, except for some dried blood caked to his head, tinting his hair a scarlet shade too dark.

  
“How severe is the head injury?”

  
“The accident was real bad, doc. Slim chance of him making it through.”

  
“Well, that’s why we’re here, aren’t we? Get him to room 7. NOW! Move, people!” she motion towards her team.

  
“Oh, one weird thing though, doc?” the paramedic says, like an afterthought.

  
“Yeah?”

“We thought he was dead on site.”

"Come again?”

  
“His heart—it stopped beating once. And then it beats again. Right before he slipped into a coma.”

  
She is about to reply, something about life and death working in mysterious ways but something stops her. From the corner of her eyes, she notices a young man limping towards them. He is muttering something, his lips working like a robot and mouthing the same sound. Curious, she stops in her tracks and tries to figure out what he is saying.

  
“No, Youngjae. No. No. NO. Please, nooo…”

  
With a flick of her head, she motions a nurse to the injured guy.

  
“Excuse me, could you tend to him, please? He appears to be in shock.”

  
“Sure thing, doc.”

As they wheel the gurney through the long narrow halls of the ER, she learns her new patient’s name as she overhears the whole exchange between the nurse on duty and the young man.

  
“Nooo, I need to see him.”

  
“You need to calm down. We’re trying to save your friend.”

  
“Get away from me—Youngjae! Choi Youngjae!!”

  
“Please, you’re causing a ruckus. Let us tend to your injury first.”

  
“NOOO! LEAVE ME, I HAVE TO GO—YOUNGJAE-AH!”

  
“Guards—I need help with this guy!”

  
“NOOOO! LET ME GO! I NEED TO SEE HIM, DAMNNIT!”

“Ease down, young man. You’re just hurting yourself.”

"YOUNGJAE! YOU BETTER WAKE UP OR I’LL KILL YOU MYSELF! YOU HEAR ME??!”

* * *

They move the young man in and soon afterwards, the room morphs into a flurry of activities.

  
This is not her first patient, and she knows without a doubt that he wouldn’t be her last either. But what she knew for sure, as she begins to take a closer look at him, is the fact that he will not make it through tonight. She has handled too many lives before, and knew when she is about to lose one. The fixed dilated pupils were too much of a giveaway. _Couldn’t be more subtle, could you, Lady Death?_

  
“Doc, from the looks of it, his internal organs seem fine.”

  
“…”

  
“Apnea test?”

  
“Negative, doc.”

  
“Brain stem reflexes?” she asked again, already knowing the answer to her question.

  
“Nil.”

  
“…” _Irreversible brain injury._

  
“Doc, he’s registered with us—" he shows her Choi Youngjae’s information chart, along with his ID. A small red mark on the card makes all the difference.

  
“…”

  
“So, should we start—”

  
She glances at the medical history again, looks back at the young man lying unconscious on the operating table and pauses for a moment before making up her mind.

  
“Keep him on life support and get me his relatives. I need to explain what’s going to happen next.”

  
“Of course.”

  
“And alert Dr. Kang at Cardiology. Tell him...just tell him to be on standby.”

"Sure thing, Doc."

  
So yes, she has seen her fair share of broken bodies. But it’s the broken souls that get to her, haunts her days and sometimes her sleepless nights. And that particular night, coming out from the operation theatre, she meets both at the same time, as she speaks to the injured young man from earlier and witnesses him crumpling up into himself, like a used-up candle wax that has burned too many times.

When she finishes her shift around nine the next morning, she notices that he remains in the same position while Choi Youngjae’s parents are huddled together on the other end of the bench, heads bowed down in silence and she thinks; _broken souls—they’re everywhere, aren’t there?_

* * *

  
From his bed by the window, he could partake in life beyond the hospital walls. Watching the people that walked in and out of the hospital, he imagines that one day, he’ll be able to walk out of the building too, and not having to come back so frequently. _Yeah, right. Another day wasted with wishful thinking, huh?_

He shakes the thought away, blows at the tip of the newly sharpened black and yellow pencil and begins to draw; hand moving rapidly, fingers adjusting themselves to the tempo, as he sketches yet another new image of his obsession. Blank page soon transforms into a beating heart— _thump thump thump._ Like his own.

A knock on his door snaps him out from his thoughts and a familiar looking face wearing a black-rimmed glasses pops in.

  
“Morning, Dr. Kang.” He musters a tired smile. He is getting more and more tired these days.

  
“Morning, Jinyoung.”

  
“How are you feeling today?”

  
“Alive. Counting the days—take your pick.”

  
“Now, now. I’ve told you to always look on the bright side, haven’t I?”

  
“Yeah.” He snorts. _What the hell would you know?_

  
“I see that you’ve been sketching again?”

  
“Oh, this? It’s nothing.” He turns his sketchbook upside down, embarrassed.

  
“They’re really impressive—those sketches of yours. Morbid, yes. But you have real talent.”

  
“You’re not here to shower me with praise, Dr. Kang. What’s up?”

  
“Not one for polite conversation, aren’t you?”

“If you haven’t noticed yet, I’m not the type who have time for polite whatnots—time is not exactly my fucking friend.”

  
The doctor sighs, checking off the medical chart next to the bed. “ As much as I enjoy our banter, Jinyoung, I'm not here to fight. Wouldn’t want to get you all riled up this morning.”

  
“And why not?”

  
“You’ll see—I’ll be back in a while.” With a wink, he exits the room, seeming a little too cheerful for Jinyoung’s like.

  
Incensed, Jinyoung throws his pencil at the subject of his annoyance. It hits the door and falls unto the floor with a thump as it closes after the doctor. 

_What a tease—and why the hell is everyone so fucking cheerful today?_

_\- To be continued-_


	3. Of Grief and Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaebum grieves while Jinyoung's hope soars.

**Of Grief and Hope**

**Grief**

  
Grief is the night sky  
emptied of the moon and stars;  
a dark forest  
that swallowed you whole,  
spitting out crushed bones amidst fresh tears.

Grief is you  
trying to stitch up  
the broken pieces together;  
embedding more glass into your skin, _inch by inch._

Grief is the memories  
that comes in waves,  
hitting endlessly upon the shores  
of the broken-hearted beach.

Grief is the poison in your bloodstream,  
coloring you a crimson shade;

_too deep,too much,too soon._

© _**Grief (In Memory of Leo)**_ by Vanillascribble (August 2017)

“This is all your fault! If you hadn’t come into Youngjae’s life, he would still be alive!”

  
“I don’t—”

  
“I've told you before, didn’t I? You’re nothing but a bad influence, Jaebum.”

  
“I…I—”

  
“Just go!”

  
“…”

  
“Please, Jaebum. You’ve already taken him from us, what more do you want?!!”

  
“…I..I wouldn’t..—”

  
“Youngjae-ah…my poor son.. Youngjae-aaahhh…”

It was Youngjae’s father who helped him up and led him away. For he would have stayed there, rooted in his spot, knees on the floor and begging for a forgiveness that he knew would never come. A forgiveness that he probably doesn’t deserve.

  
Not that he could blame them. For how could they forgive him? He who escaped the accident with a slight limp and some cuts and bruises while Youngjae…

_I’m sorry…_

  
_I’m so so…so sorry…_

  
_What do I say to someone who’ve just lost their only son?_

  
_What else should I say when they look at me with such contempt in their eyes, anger seething beneath the surface of civility?_

  
_What more can I say when they…_

  
_…when they told me to never to show up in front of them, ever again?_

  
_When they ask me why Youngjae? Why Youngjae?? Why their son? Why indeed?_

  
_How do I tell them—how the hell do I tell them that I’m so so sorry? That I’m rewinding back moments, minutes, hours, days before the tragedy?_

  
_That I could never forgive myself for handing the car keys over to him even if he had begged me to? For letting him drive the day he passed his driving test? How do I tell them that I would have stopped the rain if it was in my power to do so? That I wished I had spotted the trailer lying across the road much much earlier? That I could have warn him sooner, ask him to step on the brake seconds earlier, switch seat with him? Do whatever it takes to keep him safe?_

  
_How do I..how do I tell them that when he died, I feel like dying too? That I want to yell at the sky and scream at the world to just stopstopstop?!! To pause, to unwind, to undo everything that has happened, to take all this pain away and let me breathe?_

  
_Because I cannot breathe—God, I cannot breathe…I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. I fucking cannot breathe!_

  
_Youngjae-ah…I can’t breathe. How do I breathe? How the hell do I breathe? How???_

* * *

Kunpimook is wiping the tables when Jaebum steps into the Thai eatery, shoulders slumped and eyes unfocused. He notices how Jaebum walks with a slight limp, more like he is dragging his other leg while a dark blue bruise colours his jaw.

  
He waits while Jaebum seats himself at the corner table before hanging the small towel over one shoulder and approaching him to investigate further.

  
“My my—Iook what the rain dragged in. God, you’re a total mess, Im Jaebum.”

  
Jaebum doesn’t answer, which Kunpimook finds slightly alarming. Although he is a Thai and well, social rules of Korean society don’t really fit his cup of Thai milk tea, Jaebum is very strict about being a _hyung._

  
“Really?” he asks, eyes downcast and evading the lanky Thai for unknown reasons.

  
_This is how you’re going to play, huh? Okay, I’ll indulge then._ “A bit too early for dinner, aren’t we? So what will you have, Jaebummie?”

  
“Anything will do.”

  
“Rice and tom yam goong okay?” _Seriously? Jaebummie? You’re not gonna kill me or something?_

  
“Sure.”

  
“Hyung…you okay?”

  
“Uh—huh.”

  
“Yeah? What’s with the leg and bruises then?”

"I said, I’m fine, Bam. Can you serve the food now, please?”

  
“Ookaaay, no need to get all hangry on me. Coming right up!”

Kunpimook doesn’t consider himself a patient person. He works hard in a foreign land. He is loyal to his friends. He is generous, too generous sometimes. Patience, however, is not one of his virtues. But as he observes the older male methodically swallowing his food without chewing it first, Kunpimook figures he could probably stretch that patience a little bit and wait until Jaebum finishes the meal.

“So…is there any particular reason for this sudden gluttony of yours?” he asked, as he casually plops down opposite Jaebum, his hands busy stacking up the empty bowls and pretending he isn’t all that curious or worried.

  
“I was hungry.”

  
Jaebum doesn’t meet his probing gaze when he answers, and that is all the fuel that Kunpimook needs.

  
“I could see that…you’re always hungry. But finishing five bowls of rice and three bowls of piping hot tom yam soup is more of a…I don’t know—a punishment?”

  
“…”

  
“And since we’re the only establishment to offer counselling session along with some good ole fashioned Southeast Asian comfort food, let me guess—something to do with Youngjae-hyung?”

  
“...”

  
“For real?”

  
“..Ye—yeah.”

  
“Oh…what happened? Thought you guys were good.”

  
“He’s gone.”

  
“Come on—you two never fought for long. What is it this time?”

  
“No, he’s never coming back. Not this time.”

  
“Want me to call him? Tell him to please come and collect a zombie from my place before he starts scaring all my potential customers away?”

  
“He won’t answer.”

  
“Look hyung, this negativity is not getting you anywhere, okay. Give me your phone.”

  
“It’s broken.”

  
“Fine, cheapskate. Gosh, you’re sour than a bowl of _kaeng som,_ I tell you. I’ll use mine—what is his number again?”

  
“Told you he won’t be answering.”

  
“Yeah, yeah. And I’m Cupid.”

He’s dead.”

  
“…”

  
“He’s dead, Bam. They—they won’t even let me see him.” Glassy eyes meet his over empty bowls and an emptier heart.

  
“Hyung, I…I had no idea—”

  
“I..I need to say goodbye, you know?..They’re cutting him up and they won’t even let me see him for one last time.”

As he watches the rain falling in silence from the pools of Jaebum’s pained eyes, Kunpimook bites the inside of his cheek, wishing he had never asked certain questions and Jaebum had never answered them.

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

* * *

  
All his life, Park Jinyoung has been preparing to die.

  
He reads up about death a lot, more than the healthy dose recommended to a human being, probably. He thinks about it; sketches it on pages and pages of paper until he ran out of ideas on how to describe his failing organ and its love-hate relationship with Death. In fact, he could cite random facts about the heart, facts that other people often take for granted or doesn’t even bother to find out.

  
Jinyoung learns that a human heart is roughly the size of an adult’s fist. Every day, it beats about 100,000 times per day, which equals to an average of three billion beats in a lifetime. An adult heart beats about 60 to 80 times per minute while a newborn heart beats faster, about 70 to 190 beats per minute. The heart pumps about 5.7 litres of blood throughout the body, keeping the blood flowing through the 60,000 miles of blood vessels that feed the organs and tissues.

  
The heart also contains electrical pacemaker cells which cause it to contract — producing a heartbeat. So basically, for as long as they live, everyone has an organic drum beating in their chests; reminding them to smile, to laugh, to shout, to scream, to cry, to love and to experience life in all its spectrums.

  
Except that Jinyoung’s drum is broken since birth. Born with a severe congenital heart defect known as Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome (HLHS), the left side of his heart is underdeveloped. In a normal heart, the left side of the heart has the job of pumping oxygenated blood into the large artery that carries blood to the body. But for Jinyoung, the right side of his heart ends up doing the left’s side job.

  
He was 36 months old when he had to undergo the first reconstructive surgery to finetune his heart. Two more procedures followed when he was seven and twelve, and the most recent one was seven years ago when he was fifteen. If left untreated, most kids with HLHS could barely make it past infanthood. Some, like Jinyoung, developed more complications during their childhood and require surgical reconstruction, which means life-long care by a cardiologist well-versed in congenital heart disease. Many remain on medication for the rest of their lives, and additional surgeries usually pop out of nowhere, right when you start to believe that your heart is finally learning to behave as normal hearts do. Some, however, never get to experience being a teenager with raging hormones at all. So Jinyoung knows he is luckier than most.

  
Summer holidays for Jinyoung usually means imagining himself licking a corn-flavoured ice cream on a crowded beach and feeling the sand beneath his feet when in reality he was hooked up to a machine, the constant _beep beep beep_ of his own heart reminding him that outside, summer is fleeting and here he is, ticking his life away in an environment designed to protect him from life itself. Thus far, surgical and medical interventions have lengthened his chances of survival. But even that is beginning to reach its limit. Because as life progresses, Jinyoung’s heart regresses.

  
At 21 years old, he was told that he only has less than a year to get hold of a new heart, before his own stops working for the final time. That was exactly thirteen months ago. Now he is one month twenty-three days beyond his expiry date, and he is getting tired of Death playing peekaboo with him.

  
Jinyoung learns that moments after his heart stops working, other organs will follow suit, beginning with his lungs as breathing discontinues. Four to six minutes after no blood flow, his brain would be deprived of oxygen and his brain cells would begin to die. Ten minutes after, those cells will cease functioning, and only then will he be effectively dead. His mother would probably turn into his father’s chest and sob her heart out, no doubt in silence, fearing he could hear her muffled cries even in death. She never cried in front of him. She was a warrior fighting a constant battle, but Jinyoung knows behind that tough demeanor, she breaks and breaks every time he was admitted for another prolonged hospital stay.

  
Despite him trying to remain objective, Jinyoung knows Dr. Kang has a soft spot for him, so he would probably be affected too. The doctor is always so cheerful, but Jinyoung realises that sometimes the cheerful joy that he spreads around the Cardiology Unit is more for his patients’ sake, rather than the doctor’s own.

  
Jinyoung knows all these and more. After all, he is no stranger to death. He has died two years ago—flatlined for a total of 1:03 minutes before he was resuscitated back to life. Dr. Kang said 63 seconds was a long time to be dead, for a heart to stop beating but for Jinyoung, it was only a split second.

  
So yes, Jinyoung has been preparing all his life to die. He knows how to go about it, has prepared his loved ones to face it. Especially after he was placed on the waiting list for a transplant for the last seven months. Six months on the list, he realised that there is no compatible heart available and he had his own draft of eulogy prepared, just in case. The piece of paper is tucked into the last page of his sketchpad, easy for his parents or Dr. Kang to find after he is gone.

But now, as he is being wheeled into the operating room, well—they’re telling him to live.

This new heart—the heart that will soon be his, he overheard it belonged to a guy around his age. Traffic accident. Healthy and at the prime of his life.

  
_The caveat? He had to die in order for me to live._

  
It could be the anaesthesia, it could be the fear of going under the knife again, it could be 50/50 chance of the surgery failing or being a success, it could be the guilt of knowing someone just died to provide him another chance, another shot at this life—whatever it is, Jinyoung’s mind refuses to sleep.

_I…I should know your name at the very least, right?_

  
_Favourite colour?_

  
_Hobbies, maybe?_

  
_Your last thoughts—were you scared? Angry? Relieved?_

  
_Were you alone? God, I hope not…_

  
_Your heart…is it..is it beating for someone, somewhere?_

“ten…nine…eight…seven…”

  
_Wait.._

  
_“six…five…four…”_

  
_Hold on…wait a minute.._

  
_“three…two…”_

  
_How do I…how do I do this?_

  
“One…”

  
_How do I live?_

  
“And he’s going under…”

  
_Who—whoever you are. I’m sorry…_

  
_For…for—what was I saying?_

  
_For…yes. For taking your heart._

  
_Not sure if I deserve it—your heart…but—but I’ll take good care of it. Like my life depends on it._

“Alright, doc—he’s out.”

_-to be continued-_


	4. Between Seoul and Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes distance is as close as each heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Been a while since I last updated. Thank you for waiting <3

**-Seoul, 3 years later-**

“Hyung! Open up. It’s me.”

“Hyuuuung!”

“Yah, Im Jaebumm. You still alive in there?”

Kunpimook tries again, pressing the video intercom and yelling for the older guy to let him in. He waits for a while—boots tapping the floor in impatience and after ten more seconds, proceeds to key in the password, guessing all of Jaebum’s secrets that were not so much of a secret (not to him, at least).

Once the front door clicks open, he shoves a fist into the air and dances his way in. Shaking the raindrops from his coat, he notes Jaebum’s own ash-grey raincoat hanging on the rack. _So he is home._

“Hyung?” he peers into the corridor, notices that the curtains were drawn close as usual in the living room. Something warm slithers by his legs and he jumps, before catching an equally surprised-looking white cat staring up at him. He blinks at Kunpimook, drawing attention to his blue and greenish-yellow eyes.

“Hey there, Odd. Sorry, kinda forgot you live here too.”

“Meww.” _Whatever._

“Man, you’ve grown so big! I could hardly recognise you.”

“Mewwww.” _You bring any food?_

“Has he fed you yet?”

 _Meoww_. It sounded like _Are you kidding me?_ to Kunpimook, so he proceeds towards Odd’s empty bowl and fills it to the brim with kibbles. Leaning back, he smiles as he watches the cat gobbling up its food with relish.

“Let me guess, he’s still sleeping huh?”

The Turkish Angora motions his head towards the master bedroom. _Check it out for yourself._

Shaking his head, Kunpimook carries his bag of groceries to the kitchen and searches for Jaebum’s black apron.

* * *

Jaebum groans, it feels like he is carrying the weight of the world on his head. Outside, he could hear the rain pelting the earth like crazy. Unforgiving. _Just like..No, don’t go there_. He reaches for the phone under his pillow. 9:30 am. How he wishes he could sleep more and not have to wake up and feed the cat and…. _Shit! Odd!_

Hair dishevelled; he bolts from his room to find Odd licking himself in content on the floor instead of mewing for food as normal. _Oh?_

The smell of peanut sauce and sautéed garlic assault his senses and that’s when he realises that Kunpimook must be back in Seoul again. _Just who the hell does he think he is?_

“You’re having a knack being a cat burglar and breaking into my place, don’t you?”

“Morning, hyung. Woah—you look like hell. Drunken sleep is not a good look on you, I can tell.”

“Oh, don’t even begin—”

“I’ll be done in about 15 minutes—more than enough time for you to shower. And you should have changed your passcode if you care so much about a break-in—”

“I’ve changed it a year ago.”

“Well, change it again. That one was too easy to figure out. I got in on my third guess. Scooot now.”

“You’re not chasing me out of my own kitchen, you imp—”

“Scoot. Now.”

Sighing, Jaebum wishes he had picked up some Thai swear words just so he could curse Kunpimook in his own language. Deliver the complete punch. Instead, all he knows are ‘Sawadeeka’ and ‘Khob Khun Ka’.

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting cross-legged on the sofa, knees touching and a plate of steaming pad thai gracing each lap.

“So, when did you get back? Why didn’t you tell me?” Jaebum asks, before gobbling down the food.

“A couple days ago. Unlike you, I do have other people whom I call friends, you know?”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too.”

“How was Paris?”

“Overrated. Touristy. Too much baguette and tepid black coffee after the first two weeks. Pigeons’ shit all over the square.”

“Huh.”

“Other than that, everything else is awesome. The restaurant is packed on most nights, I barely had time to go pee. But money keeps rolling in and my uncle made an awesome boss, so there’s that.”

“Oh.”

“Can’t you muster a more original response instead of a few sounds here and there? It’s like I’m talking to a damn cow grazing on some grass.”

“Sorry. Just hungry. Go on, I’m listening.”

“Enough about me—how have you been? You didn’t pick up my last two calls.”

“Busy.”

“Yeah, I can see that. More like busy denying the world, though.”

“Don’t start, Bam.”

“I’ll start whenever I want to. It was plain rude of you, you know. I was half a world away, no idea if you’re gonna—”

At Jaebum’s raised eyebrows, Kunpimook finds himself swallowing his next words. _No idea if you’re gonna do something real stupid and I’m never gonna see you again next time I come back._

“You’re worse than a mother hen, you know? Quit worrying so much.”

“Why would I worry—"

“I’m going to help myself to a second serving. You want any?”

Shaking his head, Kunpimook pretends to brush a strand of hair away from his eyes, welling the lump down his throat.

For the next five minutes, he watches as Jaebum cleans his third plate of pad thai. He guesses that there will never be a right time for what he is about to say, so he clenches his fist and decides to ask away. 

“Hyung.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever thought of moving away?”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know—just…just anywhere. A change of scenery or two. Maybe follow me back to France, for instance?”

“Whatever for? I have a job here.”

Kunpimook rolls his eyes. “Oh please, you can cook anywhere in the world. Sure, working at a traditional Korean cuisine establishment pays you well. But what about living your dreams? You wanted to bake pastries once, remember? Making tteok is one thing. French pastries is another world altogether. You’ll have fun over there. They have this classes on weekends where—”

“Bam.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m fine where I am.”

“…” _No, you’re not._

“I’m not like you, Bam. I’m happy with my life now.”

“No. You’re lying to yourself and you knew it, hyung.”

“And what would you know?”

“..I..I just—”

“Shouldn’t have snooped your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Exasperated, Kunpimook figures he has no choice but to hit Jaebum where he knows would hurt him the most.

“If Youngjae-hyung is alive, he would probably knock some sense into that thick head of yours!”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Dare what? Make you face the truth? Like tell you it’s no use keeping that damn cello there?” He points towards the worn cello case leaning against one corner of the living room.

“…”

“You know what? That’s you. All broken and taped up and just sitting there in a safe corner.”

“…”

“Look, I know how much he meant to you. But you’re hol—”

“You know nothing, Bam.” Jaebum sets his jaw tight, ready to deflect any incoming argument.

Kunpimook sighs.“Fine, I might not understand, but what is the use of holding on to that? It’s just a musical instrument.”

“It’s not just any musical instrument.”

“Hyung, that cello won’t bring him back. It won’t bring anyone back.”

“Enough, Bam.”

“Keeping it is an injustice to his memories, to yourself!”

“I said, enough!”

Kunpimook knows he should have stopped there and then, but he has swallowed too much, has waited patiently by Jaebum’s side all this while. He is no fool either. He knows the cello case holds more than just the broken wooden pieces of Youngjae’s cello. The case also contains all the shattered pieces of Jaebum’s poor heart.

“You know where you’ve been for the past three years, hyung? Stuck! Stuck in your lingering guilt over something beyond your control! Stuck in a maze of your own making and wishing for Youngjae-hyung to return when you know that’s not possible!”

“ENOUGH!!”

Jaebum flings his half-empty plate against the wall. Splatters of the sauce and bits and pieces of eggs, noodles and cockles scatter on the floor, like graffiti. Odd mews and runs to hide behind the curtain, his tail tucked between his legs.

Both men stay quiet for a while, staring at the spectacle beyond them. But it wasn’t long before Kunpimook summons his courage and apologises.

“Hyung, I’m sorry. I probably went overboard just now. I just…I can’t take seeing you like this anymore.”

“…”

“Look, I’m back for a reason. My uncle’s business is growing—he’s thinking of adding Korean dishes on the menu beginning next year. I recommended your name.”

“What?”

“Weren’t you listening? We want you, chef Im. In France.”

* * *

**-France-**

From his small flat tucked in the 18th Arrondissement, Jinyoung marvels at the lights sparkling from the tower. The City of Lights, they called it—but having lived in it for nearly a year, Jinyoung learns that the city also has its own darkness. Beyond the romance, the glamour, the rich tapestry of history, Paris has its grits, its poverty masked by the outer city slums, the struggling immigrants trying to blend in with the crowd.

Jinyoung’s life has changed for the past three years. He discovers a new side of life, like the better side of a gold coin. The surgery went well without much complications, the follow up treatments too. Although his parents and Dr. Kang weren’t totally ecstatic when he told them he planned to further his studies in France, there was not much anyone can do to stop him, once he has made up his mind. As the frown settled on his mother’s forehead, he promised to abide by the treatments and to take good care of himself. He knows he is living on borrowed time, and three years has passed. The heart beating in his chest is his and not his at the same time. But so far, it remains compatible with his body.

A few things have changed. For instance, Jinyoung doesn’t care much for Korean food when he was growing up in Seoul. He prefers fast food and that used to drive his mum up the wall, with his heart condition and all. But now he enjoys traditional delicacies, as if he grew up somewhere in the Korean countryside. He goes crazy for tteok too, whereas before this he hated munching on the gooey substance on New Year.

He draws better too, but he also acquires a new skill that wasn’t there before. Now, he could understand music notes or play the same melody after listening to it a couple of times. As for the cello, he doesn’t have an answer for that.

He was on his way home from class one evening and took a different route by mistake when he passed by the musical instrument shop. The shop looked like it has seen better days, the display glass framed by layers of dust. And then there was the cello just sitting there, as if it has been waiting for him all this while.

“Wow, whose cello is this?” Yugyeom asked as Jinyoung walked inside their shared apartment, the cello riding snugly on his back.

“Mine.” He replied, looking a bit sheepish.

“Oh? Never knew you played the cello?”

“…Well, me neither.”

“Hold up, do you play the cello or not?”

“..Well, there’s always a first time for everything, isn’t it?”

But the moment he touched the wooden panel, his fingers came alive on their own, as if he has been playing the cello his whole life. Yugyeom’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor as he played one arrangement after another.

“Hyung…you play like you’re possessed.”

Jinyoung laughed it off. _Yeah, right. How ridiculous._

Still, as he watches the flickering lights of the Eiffel, he wonders if Yugyeom was right after all.

_-to be continued-_


	5. Holding On and Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaebum moves to France, hoping to heal. Jinyoung discovers the other side of him.

**_Holding On and Letting Go_ **

_And I will hold_

_I'll hold onto you_

_No matter what this world'll throw_

_It won't shake me loose_

_I'll reach my hands out in the dark_

_And wait for yours to interlock_

_I'll wait for you_

_I'll wait for you_

-Lyrics taken from **_‘Don’t Give Up on Me’_** by Andy Grammar-

**-Seoul-**

Evening gradually turns to dusk and the streets are deserted, the streetlights shining spots of yellow unto wet pavements and damp asphalt. The light shower has morphed into an unforgiving rain, chasing most people straight home for a bowl of rice and hot soup after cancelling dinner plans with friends.

The rain continues to pelt the earth, a steady staccato signalling a long, long rainy night ahead. A white mini truck comes screeching to a stop in front of an apartment building, its brake complaining with all its might as someone steps out from the passenger’s door, pulling his hoodie over his head and making a run towards the emerald green donation box rooted to the sidewalk.

Having pried open the box, the man scoured its content—a few bags of clothes, a clock radio that might just run again if repaired, more fabric, a harmonica, and some old records. He quickly grabs the item and begins to load them unto the back of the truck, running back and forth between the donation box and the vehicle a few times while huddling his collection.

Only after he has emptied the box did he notices the cello case. Someone must have leaned it upright against the back of the box, its height nearly matching him. He stares at it for a while and shudders as images of decomposing body parts stuffed into the case bombarded his mind. Curious, he carefully leans over and unlatches it. Unwittingly, a hand flew to cover his mouth at the sight that greets him. There are no body parts or anything, but it looks the same to him, as the case contains a heavily damaged cello, bruised and bloody in its wooden form. It looked as if someone had thrashed the instrument only to desperately make it whole again, judging from the wide green tape crisscrossing its body. Like putting salve on cuts and bruises, as if its owner regretted his action and was trying to make amends. For a moment, he hesitates whether to take it or not. From the look of it, he doesn’t think there is any hope for the poor instrument, and who would want to repair it anyway—the damage was too much.

“Hurry up, Yoon. We don’t have all day!” The truck driver bellows; his voice nearly drowned out by the rain.

“Coming!” He closes the case and runs back to the truck, empty-handed.

He tugs at the door handle and is about to tear it open when he changes his mind. Something he knows doesn’t make much sense but something he thinks he should do. Something that he wouldn’t be able to explain to his co-worker later as to why he rushed back to collect the cello case and hauled it to the back of the truck, along with the mess of second-hand treasures strewn beneath the tarpaulin.

_I just feel bad for him._

_What do you mean—who?_

_The one who threw it away._

* * *

**-Im Jaebum-**

Not so long ago, someone once told Jaebum that the power of music lies in its vibrations. This is why a lullaby sung to a baby is so calming, both for mother and child. The cello, he was told, has the same ability to mimic the sonic vibrations of a soothing lullaby, since it is the instrument closest to the human voice.

“That’s ridiculous. How could something so bulky and inconvenient to carry around sound like that?” He scoffed, as he scooped more soup into a container, making sure to include a generous serving of chicken and mushrooms before closing the lid and finished packing the customer’s order.

“Well, why don’t you come over once and listen to it yourself?” The young man replied.

“And why would I want to do that?” Jaebum smirked, handing the takeaway bag.

“Yeah, why would you want to do that?” A smile formed on his lips as he took the bag, fingers touching Jaebum’s for a second too long, before he made his way to the cashier.

Jaebum thought nothing more of it until his shift ended and Bambam slapped him hard on the back with glee.

 _Why that prick!_ He turned around and was about to give the Thai a taste of his own medicine, but failed to do so before being slapped in the face with a piece of paper.

“Hey Im Jaebum! Wanna go listen to some good shit?” He waved a brochure in the air.

“What is that?” He tried to wrestle the paper from Kunpimook.

“An invitation from who else but our loyal customer—the one who keeps showing up every Thursday night to stare at you—"

“Hey!”

“I mean, to stare at the food that you make.”

Despite his initial skepticism, Jaebum found himself seated in the second last row of the mini hall at Hanyang University College of Music. Bambam bailed out on him at the last minute, after calling to make sure he has reached the campus. Jaebum doubted whether Bambam was telling the truth, but he was already there, so he might as well just stay.

The lights dimmed while Jaebum was mentally cursing Bambam and the performing students entered the stage one by one. Minutes later, his loyal customer was seated with a cello in between his legs, the neck of the musical instrument resting lightly against his nape, fingers poised at the fingerboard and a bow tucked in another hand. Jaebum pulled his cap lower against his face and huddled down deeper against the seat.

Jaebum doesn’t consider himself a fan of classical music, nor could he tell one composition apart from another. But he understands emotions channeled through music, and as the melodies floated towards him and their eyes met across the small shared space, Jaebum realised that someone was speaking to him without uttering a sound. It felt intimate and pervasive at the same time, it unnerved him. And Im Jaebum doesn’t get unnerved easily.

“So, did I manage to change your mind about the cello?” He asked, as Jaebum approached the stage after the performance ended.

“I’m not sure—maybe? But that is still the ugliest musical instrument I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, why don’t you come again next week? I’ll play you something I wrote.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“And why would I want to do that?” The guy replied his question with that smile of his that always threw Jaebum off his thoughts.

“Why do you always repeat my question?”

“Have I? Didn’t think you’d noticed.” He flashed that innocent wide smile that threw Jaebum off his tracks again.

“I…”

“I’ll see you here next week.”

“I didn’t say I was going to come again.”

“You didn’t say you were going to come today, either.”

“I…I promised my co-worker.”

“Really? Funny how I didn’t see him around—and I could see very well from the stage, you know.”

“I..he..well—”

“I was just teasing you, Jaebum-sshi. Thanks for coming—I…I was hoping you’d come.” He cracked another smile, sincere and genuine this time.

“Um…well..I—I enjoyed the music.”

“I know..” Another smile, as he latched his cello case and gave Jaebum a two fingers salute in jest before disappearing down the hallway, the cello riding on his shoulder as Jaebum stood there and watched, stupefied.

That someone believed music can heal all the broken souls in the world. Which is why he was studying to become a music therapist. He wanted to heal, and he believed he could. That was Choi Youngjae, just full of life and possibilities, and that damning need to help others through his craft. But the world shut its doors before Youngjae could knock.

Bambam would beg to differ, but Jaebum believed he dealt with grief better than anyone expected. He didn’t feel anything afterward, as if someone had switched off his emotions, flipping it like a light switch when darkness changed to light. At work, he continued to serve perfection on plates but at home, he ended up cooking more porridge than rice, his water to rice ratio always a bit off and his fried eggs tasted burnt than well-fried. He poured too much salt into his kimchi jjigae and ended up throwing the whole pot into the sink, watching the red liquid pooling in the metal basin. Not that it made any difference, anyway. He just wasn’t that hungry. Whenever his stomach grumbled under the abuse, he munched on packets of dried seaweed and the kimbap rolls that Bambam kept shoving into his jacket’s pocket as he was preparing to leave work. Beef and spinach kimbap, tuna and kimchi kimbap, cucumber and salmon kimbap, ham and egg kimbap, the list went on and Bambam has always been generous with food. But all Jaebum tasted were the basic ingredients; rice, vinegar and salt—his taste buds as numb as his feelings.

Three months after Youngjae was gone, Jaebum rolled out of bed one morning, silent rage running through his veins. He tried to quell it down by downing a glass of water but even as he was gulping down the last drop, the red curtain refused to budge. Instead, it continued to boil, the water fuelling his anger. Everything was silent in the apartment, except for the hissing sound of water bursting from his rice cooker as it converted raw rice into something edible.

He tried to ignore the pressure building inside him by switching on the tv. Yet, moments later he ended up throwing the remote against the wall. It hit something hard with a thud, the impact sending the broken remote landing near his feet. Enraged, he eyed the full length of the cello case and before he could think further, he rushed across the room to tear the cello out from safety.

The instrument made contact with the floor, wood splinters flying upwards, defying gravity.

_WHY_

He swayed it at the wall, leaving marks against the white interior.

_WHYYYY HIM?!_

He smashed it against the tv mounted on the wall, leaving behind splinter-like cracks on the glass monitor and nearly dragging the tv from its mount.

_WHY YOUNGJAE??!!_

He swung the cello repeatedly against the wooden coffee table, into the wall, against the floor, against every hard surface available.

_SOMEONE TELL ME WHY!!!_

_SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHY…_

_PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE_

_JUST TELL ME WHY_

_Why…_

_Youngjae-ah..why did you leave?_

By the end of it, he was breathing hard and heavy and his shoulders, his back, his whole body were hurting. The cello lay upside down, splinters of wood everywhere, even in his hair.

Something spiked the sole of his foot, he lifted it and saw the cello’s tuning peg digging into his flesh, drawing droplets of blood; red raindrops colouring his pristine white floor.

Losing the strength to stand, he fell on his knees; a mix of skin and bones, thoughts and emotions, memories—those damn memories, and pain crushing his bones. Pain which he wished would seep through the floorboards and leave him empty.

He felt like vomiting, but only air and saliva came out from his mouth as he retched and convulsed. His throat burned, his head throbbed, and his lungs felt blocked with heavy bricks. Every part of him was hurting; thousands acupuncture needles inserted into every nerve point on his body, slowly drawing out his essence as he drifted into unconsciousness.

But still no one answered him.

Jaebum’s gaze lingers after the mini truck even as it pulled away from the side of the road and joined the non-existent traffic, carrying with it the only thing left he has of Youngjae. He continues to watch until the truck’s taillights disappeared altogether, like teardrops mashing into the rain. Biting the inside of his cheek, his fingers trail after the tadpole-like drops cascading unto the glass of his third-storey balcony. He wonders if he is doing the right thing.

_Maybe yes. Maybe no._

_He..he was my world, you know?_

_How do you destroy your own world without destroying yourself?_

* * *

**-Paris-**

“You played that song a lot—why?” Yugyeom asks, teeth sinking into the baguette.

Jinyoung shrugs, trying not to think too much. “It’s the first song I played when I began to play.”

“What is it called?”

“…Hmm..”

“You mean you’ve been playing a song without knowing its name? Where did you hear it from then? You must have picked it up from somewhere, hyung.”

 _From my dreams._ Instead, he bits his lower lip and mumbles what he hopes sounded like a “Yeah, maybe.”

“Wow, wish I had your skills, hyung. You’re like a musical genius.”

Jinyoung fashions his lips into a smile. What else could he say but to agree?

Sometimes he finds himself here, at his favorite spot by the Seine. Most times he would just be sketching, trying to capture people and the sights on pieces of paper. It is rare for him to be playing the cello, entertaining the crowd like today. Credit to Yugyeom for that, for bothering him endlessly with the idea of holding a casual performance and sharing his music with a bigger audience.

“I’m no street musician, Gyeom.”

“Not yet, hyung. Plus, we don’t have soundproof walls. Grumpy Monsieur Durand has been giving me dirty looks when I dropped by at the bakery yesterday.”

“The neighbours were complaining?”

“Just Monsieur Durand—and he has no taste for music. But, that shouldn’t discourage you from playing.”

The old Jinyoung would never draw attention to himself, what more to play a musical instrument in public. But now he even sketches in public space, instead of confined to his room. Perhaps he has had enough of hospital rooms. Now, the open air and open space feel different. The air smells of a promise, a new beginning, and Jinyoung wanted to inhale all that as much as he could.

Sometimes, late at night he often finds himself staring at his reflection in the mirror, toothbrush dangling from one corner of his mouth. Peering deep into his own eyes, he wonders if his soul is visible in their depth.

_Who are you, really?_

Jinyoung knows he is himself and yet someone else at the same time. That thought amazes and terrifies him. He wonders if his donor plays the cello or a musician of some sort. Because growing up, there was nothing that Jinyoung hated more than learning music notes. He used to fail his music tests at school, but now not only could he read music notes easily, but sometimes he finds himself writing new composition and playing songs he knew for sure he has never heard before. It doesn’t occur often, but the first few times it happened, he ended up tearing the paper and storing the cello back in its case, leaning it against one corner of the room, much like the stranger looming inside him. Now, sometimes he would entertain himself and continue writing the composition, see where it takes him.

But the title of that one piece which he keeps playing continues to elude him.

He smiles more often these days, acquires a more positive thinking and is less angry at the world. His parents delighted in what they called his ‘new attitude’ to life, compared to their morbid son before the heart transplant. They attributed the change in attitude due to the second opportunity at life, which Jinyoung himself would like to believe. It certainly is more comforting to know that the change came from somewhere inside him, rather than from someone’s else organ beating in his chest.

He looked it up once out of curiosity, and there was even a name for it—cellular memory transference. It was a theory, of course, yet to be proven by science as only six percent of those who have had heart transplant reported of undergoing a personality change to a certain degree. For example, a man who had no talent in arts discovered that he has a new talent in painting after receiving a heart transplant from someone who used to be an artist.

Jinyoung wanted to dismiss such a case as coincidence—after all, people pick up new talents and learn new skills all the time. _What is so weird about that?_

Nonetheless, he refrains from bringing the issue to anyone—some things are better left alone.

A boat cruises by, cutting through the water like scissors on silk and absent-mindedly, he glances over. The boat ferries a joyful crowd; a few people wave happily, probably half-drunk on their first visit to Paris, or from the steady flow of champagne, judging from the glasses in their hands.

It is quite easy to tell the difference between one-time visitors and those who live there. Parisians are usually nonchalant, just enjoying the breeze and the sights and sounds, whereas the visitors would be busy snapping pictures of themselves and everything they see. But at the back of the boat, on the upper deck, the picture doesn’t quite match.

The figure leaning against the railing on the upper deck catches his eyes first. The guy seems to be in his own world, head tilted towards the heavens as if creating an invisible barrier between him and the rest of the world. Jinyoung couldn’t see his features clearly, just a silhouette against the sky. The guy standing close to him was tall and lanky, seeming occupied with his phone as the camera light flashes again and again.

“Hyung..”

“…”

“Jinyoung-hyung?”

“Huh?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“Why’d you stopped playing?”

“…Oh?”

He looks down and realises his hands have stop moving on their own accords. Belatedly, he gathers himself and attempts to continue playing, but his mind draws a blank note.

_What comes after?_

Dumbfounded, he looks back at the boat cruising further and further down the river away from them, watching until it becomes a miniature toy. Then he hears it:

 **Ba dump ba dump ba dump—** the throbbing of his heart through his eardrums. Surprised at the faster beats, he clutches his chest, willing it to return to normal. However seconds later, he finds himself gasping at the sudden tightness attacking his side.

“Gyeom-ah, let’s..let’s wrap up for the day.” He struggles to regain composure and proceeds to pack his stuff.

“Why? It’s not dark yet.”

 _I…I don’t feel so well._ “I’m just tired—let’s go, okay?”

* * *

There is nothing that Jaebum hates more than the crowd. A drunken happy crowd is even worse, as glasses of champagne were passed around earlier when they sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to a passenger. Why anyone would want to celebrate their birthday on a boat is beyond him, and having someone accidentally stepping on his toes earlier didn’t do anything to make him feel less uncomfortable.

“Told you it’s a bad idea to come out this evening.” He sulks and glances over at Kunpimook, who is sipping on a half-empty glass.

“Don’t be ridiculous. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be cooped up in your room with Odd. It’s our day off, so hush.”

“I like playing with Odd.”

“I don’t think Odd will mind if you mingle with your own species once in a while, hyung. Get that cat fur off your chest, you know?”

“I think I’ve done enough mingling for the entire year—how many passengers can board this river cruise anyway? I think there’s more than 50 of us.”

“Who cares to count, hyung? Enjoy the sights, will you? You’ve been here for six months and yet you won’t even enjoy your first champagne-tasting cruise.”

“I’m tired of the sights.”

“Well, finish your champagne then. Do you know how much the tickets cost me?”

“I don’t feel like drinking today.”

But his complaint falls on deaf ears, as Kunpimook strikes a series of cool poses for his selfie.

_Why did I even agree to this?_

Frustrated, Jaebum leans back against the railing, tilting his face towards the evening sky. He marvels at the distant stars and imagines himself out there in the universe, away from his current reality. Closing his eyes, he inhales deep and focuses on everything else but the crowd onboard the cruise. The chilly evening wind brushes against his skin, ruffling his hair and reminding him that it has been a year and a half since he last trimmed his hair. He sniffs the air and catches something nice—seafood, mussels probably, and garlic cooked with generous amount of butter. He found himself salivating at the enticing smell. The exciting chatter of tourists and locals aboard the boat, the sound of a French show on tv drifted from an open apartment window, a baby crying from a crib somewhere and a familiar melody being played on strings instrument. The uplifting piece contrasted against the wailing sound which could only be produced by a cello; the tang of the wooden bow against a taut string, the storytelling of humans’ emotions and secret tales with each pull, with each thrust. It is a piece which he has heard multiple times, enough to be committed to his memory. A particular piece which he wishes to forget, because that piece has died along with its owner.

Jaebum swallows a lump in his throat. His eyeballs roll desperately behind closed lids, acting as sandbags against a river that threatens to overflow. He wills his mind to think of something else rather than hallucinating over a song that no longer exists.

_Must be the champagne._

_-to be continued-_


End file.
